Even though we graduated the same year from the same school (sort of), I didn't know Philando Castile. When I attended St. Paul Central High school from 1997-2001, my dad would often comment that Central is really two schools in one building.

In my teenage mind, I somewhat comprehended what he meant: Most white middle and upper-middle class students were in honors classes in the IB or Quest programs, while most students of color were in "regular" classes.

In my fog of grief, I can remember only a few students of color in honors classes with me. My gym and health classes were the only ones more integrated. Though we were all in the same building, white students and students of color lived in different worlds.

This is wrong. This is white privilege. This is not a critique of Central specifically. This is merely one facet of systemic racism: two different schools in one building.

My father was not trying to criticize the school, either. He was lamenting our broken world. This week, I comprehended my father's lament in a new, heartbreaking way.

Philando Castile and I both graduated from Central High school in 2001. Our names were 13 spaces apart in the yearbook. But our fates took two different paths because of the color of our skin. And I did not know him.

Philando Castile

Deeply, deeply, I did not know Philando. In fact, I did not know many of my classmates of color on a deep level. It wasn't until seminary that I learned the story of Emmett Till. It wasn't until I lived in Chicago during my mid-20s that I formed friendships with black people that were deep and trust-filled enough to discuss race.

In all my years of high school, I do not remember ever bringing a black friend into our family's home, or visiting a black friend in theirs. In the first quarter century of my life, my relationships with people of color were very limited.

If there are any other white people who have similar stories, it is never too late to change. We must sustain deep, caring relationships with people of color. Only love can motivate us to engage with our lifelong calling and moral mandate to dismantle white supremacy. We must commit ourselves to be better allies. We must further integrate our neighborhoods, churches, schools, lives, friendships and our hearts. We must work to end police brutality and fight for comprehensive equality. We must fight like hell, as though our lives depend on it.

Today I put my hope in a story about a bunch of guys who were out fishing together. One of them fell asleep during a really bad storm. The rest of the guys woke him up, saying, "Hey, wake up! We are dying over here!"

And so Jesus, knowing in his bones that their lives mattered, woke up and calmed the storm.

It is time to wake up and love, time to calm this centuries-long storm of racism. It is time for us to know Philando.

Carolyn Philstrom is a pastor at Prairie Lutheran Parish in Stanley, N.D.